


More than enough

by TheLoneReader



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Family, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fedal - Freeform, M/M, Roland Garros, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoneReader/pseuds/TheLoneReader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As 19 year old Myla Federer waits for the start of her first Slam Final match, her thoughts go to her father and how the one thing he was missing could finally be within his reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than enough

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys ! This is the very first fic I post, so I would be really grateful to anyone willing to share their thoughts with me.  
> Hope you enjoy it ! :)
> 
>  
> 
> This is a fictional work that has no basis in reality (other than match results). No disrespect is intended to anyone.

**Saturday, June 2nd 2029 – Roland Garros, Court Philippe Chatrier (Paris, France)**

 

The two of you meet at the net and my breath catches in my throat. Images start filling my head. Images of another place, another time, another court. Images I cannot possibly remember – I wasn’t born at the time, god I was probably not even an _idea_ yet – but that I could never seem to escape growing up. They are still quite popular on the Internet. They were all over the Spanish press last summer, for the 20th anniversary of his win. I have seen the full recording of this particular match many times. Well, I have seen all of them, actually.

Even to this day they call it one of the most amazing matches the two of you played together. Against each other. I know that you are never sure how to formulate it either. I must admit that they are right, anyway. It is beautiful tennis, as you don’t see everyday. But to me it’s much, much more than that. There is the thrill of the game of course, as usual, the tension as the points add up, the first two sets for him, your tenacity as you take the next two. The impatience when the bad weather calls for a delay. The slight despair when he finally manages to break your serve in the fifth, and the disappointment when you put the ball into the net and he sinks to the ground in his custom celebration. It feels different though. Even through the screen, the low quality video and the years that have passed, one can feel a special something in the air. For a long time I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I just knew that, as much as I hated seeing you lose, this match fascinated me somehow. When he finally got up, his standard white outfit all messed up by the grass, and ran to give you the traditional hug, a photograph snapped a world famous picture. Even after years of it popping up regularly, I still cannot make up my mind about it. I am drawn to it. I always have trouble taking my eyes off it. And yet I find it immensely difficult to look at.

 

The match you played today was quite different, obviously. It is still beautiful tennis, because no matter your age, you are both incredible. The game is not so physical anymore, and certainly slower. Of course your back is rather stiff today, and he definitely needs to go easy on his knees, but the technicality, the quality, the elegance of your game is still there. There is not a doubt in my mind that no one will ever be able to play in a more magnificent way, to give the audience what the two of you have given over two decades. When you come to the net, the picture is almost the same as this day in 2008. The position of your bodies is similar, but the touches seem a little less confident. There are spots of grey in your hair ; his arms, though still rather impressive, are not as big as they used to be. Your foreheads are bent together, but just shy of actually touching, and I could swear I saw his hand shake as he rested it gently on your stomach. And yet, for all those little alterations, the feeling in the air is eerily identical. As I sit in the locker room, I cannot tear my eyes away from your embrace on the big screen in front of me, but I also cannot help being overwhelmed.

But I am not a 12-year-old looking at aged newspaper clippings in Diana’s attic anymore, nor a 16-year-old being asked to comment on old pictures of you during my own pressers. I’m an adult. In the last few years, I have come to realise why it is so hard for me to see you in these moments. Today is just confirmation. I stare at your face on the screen, and I know for sure I have never seen you this… _whole_.

 

Don’t get me wrong. You have been the most amazing of fathers. You still are. You have given me all that I needed, and then some more. You have hugged me when I was sad or cried. You have held me when I was scared. You have made me feel so protected, while giving me so much confidence. You have always supported me in anything I wanted to do, and gently guided me when even I didn’t know what it _was_ that I wanted. But most of all you have given me – all of us, really - so much love I often wondered where you got it all from. And yet, even then, I always felt that there was a part of you that you had locked away. You tried so hard to be everything in our lives, but sometimes, it seemed that you were not fully with us. You hid it well. More than once I asked myself if I was the only one who had noticed something. Whatever it was that you wanted to keep from touching us, you never let it slip out of your control. Not even when the two of you retired from the Tour, 10 years ago, almost at the same time. (Some people thought he cut his career short after your decision, because the tour without your rivalry wasn’t really worth it anymore. Others suggested that you had delayed your departure until he was ready to leave as well. Nobody ever seems to have it totally figured out, and most days I am not sure either of you does either.) Nor when yours and mum’s relationship finally slipped into a business partnership only, with nothing else on the side. (I cannot pinpoint exactly when that happened, I think it evolved progressively until someday it just felt kinda like an evidence.) Even then, you denied yourself that part of your heart. You poured all your energy into us – Charlene, Leo, Lenny and me. You seemed to exist only for us. You never fully opened up. Except for this few seconds, at the net, with him.

 

I snap out of my thoughts with a jolt. On the big screen, I see the two of you sign giant fluffy balls for kids on the side of the court. You have a nice expression on your face, a sincere one, not the one you give to annoying journalists. (Most people cannot tell the difference. I sure can.) He grins and waves to the audience. He still has that kind, shy smile that I find beautifully heart breaking. The tournament staff starts shepherding the both of you out of the court, and my heart beats faster. In a minute, you will be here to take a well-deserved shower, and our places will be reversed. They were particularly pleased with it. Your exhibition match just before my final. Two generations of Federers on Philippe Chatrier in one day. They couldn’t have foreseen it – I mean, I wasn’t exactly favourite for the tournament – but the public certainly did seem to like it. Of course when you realised you were a bit wary, you said you didn’t wanted to miss one second of my match, but they promised you you would have the time to get changed before I started.

 

 _My match_. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I’m 19 and I’m playing my first Slam final, at Roland Garros. The same age he was the first time he won it. I know you made the connection. You don’t speak much with journalists nowadays, but you haven’t been able to totally avoid them as I made my way through the quarters, and then semi-finals. And I saw it, you know. Every time a reporter mentioned how amazing and rare it was to see a teen in this final. A little frown in the middle of your forehead, a _something_ shining in your eyes for a split second. And then your usual, schooled expression and smooth tone, declaring how proud of me you were and how blessed you were with all your children – tennis players or not.

The memories, the exho match… I feel like maybe, maybe you are closer to that closed part of yourself than you have been in years. The thought stirs something inside me. I always want to win of course. I’m a competitor at the very core of myself; I got that from you. But tonight, it’s not about just winning for me anymore. Somehow I want to win for you. For the both of you.

 

I am 19, and tonight I could reach the top. Of my career, of my life as a tennis player. I feel that a new page of my life is about to start writing itself, and suddenly, there is so much I want to tell you. I want to tell you that I am terrified and yet so impatient. I want to hide in your arms for a while, and at the same time to run out on the court. Most of all, I want to thank you. For all the things you did, for how strong you were for us. I want to tell you how great we have all turned out, and how huge a part you have played in that. I want to tell you that I love you, that I want, more than anything else, to see you fully happy. That we all want that, me, the one who resemble you the most, the only one who followed your path, and sweet, gentle, smart Charlene, and the boys as well, even if they sometimes still seem a little naïve and self-centred, in a way only teenagers seem to properly master. I want to make sure you know that. To convince you that you are allowed, at last.

 

 

When you finally appear in front of me, however, the words fail me. I stay silent as you hug me delicately, and tell me you will be proud of me no matter what. You release me, and I notice him shuffling a bit awkwardly behind you. When our eyes meet though, he beams at me and says “Buena suerte, chica”. You and me smile our similar, Federer smiles, and he eclipses himself towards the showers. You give me your best reassuring face, pick up my racket bag from the bench and settle it on my shoulder. I swallow hard, as you kiss my forehead lightly and whisper “Good luck, champ’”, in my ear. I nod, and start off. I hear you entering a shower stall as well and I take a deep breath.

 

I’m about to walk out on court, but there is something bothering me. I can’t shake the feeling that I am missing an opportunity. Well, that you are, more like. That my silence is making you.

 

I stop walking, my heart thundering inside my chest. I go back to my locker swiftly, and fish the silver keys of the car some sponsor sent me for my last birthday out of the shorts I was wearing this morning. It’s parked just outside the court, you know where. I drove us there this earlier, just the two of us. Our special time before our big matches. I squeeze the keys in my hand for a minute – my left hand, isn’t that some sort of a sign ? – and silently drop them on top of your bag. I make sure they are in plain sight, and walk away, wishing with all that I have that you will understand the gesture. That it will make up for the words I couldn’t find.

 

 _Go. I am strong enough now. I can do this on my own. You have given me so much love. We have had your undivided attention, always. You have carried us so far, but you don’t need to anymore. You can take a break. It is ok to take care of yourself. Open that part of your heart that you locked away and give it to the person it always belonged to. You have enough for_ all _of us. Rafa deserves your love as much as we do._

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case some of you aren’t sure which match I was referring to, it’s the 2008 Wimbledon Final where Rafa defeated Roger. The picture I had in mind was actually the one taken at the 2007 Wimbly Final (where the guys hug pretty closely with their eyes closed and foreheads touching), but I guess the 2008 ones could work quite nicely as well ! 
> 
>  
> 
> For those who don’t feel like doing the math, the story taking place on June 2nd 2029 means that Roger is 47 and Rafa is 42 :)


End file.
